


don't delete the kisses

by rangerhitomi



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Comfort, Insecure Ibuki, M/M, Non-Explicit Mentions of Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 06:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18026531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangerhitomi/pseuds/rangerhitomi
Summary: Ibuki has a hard time understanding why the beautiful and charming Anjou Mamoru would choose to sleep with him, of all people.





	don't delete the kisses

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have any real excuse for this other than that i've fallen way back into ibumamo... this was a snapshot of something i had been thinking of and i fleshed it out a little so this was the end result...

Mamoru's face radiates a calm happiness as he sleeps, drooling into the hair tangled up on his pillow. He's beautiful, almost too beautiful for Ibuki to handle, so peaceful that Ibuki has to turn away; such expressions are stark contrasts to the wild ecstasy from a few short hours before, the soft, even breathing so different from the heavy panting, the breathless voice saying his name,  _Ibuki, Ibuki,_  as if it's the only word he knows, the perfect hair falling in neat sheets around his face as he gazes down at the man under him as though he were the only man in the world.  
  
Ibuki slips from his bed and grabs the robe draped over his desk chair, fumbles in the dark for the month-old pack of cigarettes he knows is in his desk drawer somewhere, and drags himself to the sliding door leading out to the balcony.  
  
Even in the middle of the night, the streets ten stories below him are busy, neon signs polluting the air with light, the low rumbling of cars cutting the still night. His hands shake as he puts a cigarette in his mouth and spends twenty seconds trying to light it, burning his finger in the process.   
  
Inhale.   
  
Cough.   
  
Inhale.   
  
Cough.   
  
That's right, he thinks, eyes watering. This is why I don't smoke.   
  
He leans on the railing, his arms cradling his head, with the smoldering cigarette held between his thumb and his index finger, until he hears the door behind him slide open and shut. The cigarette slips from his fingers.   
  
"I needed that," he says hoarsely. He doesn't look up.  
  
"No you didn't." Mamoru's voice is overly polite.   
  
It takes nearly a full minute before Ibuki is able to pull himself from the railing and look at Mamoru. Maybe he expects him to have perfectly styled hair, wearing a regal robe as if he is the Emperor of Kagero himself, with sharp, alert eyes and an authoritative posture. What he finds instead is a man slouched over with bags under his eyes and hair plastered to his face, wearing a pair of Ibuki's pajama pants and no shirt with a blanket draped over his shoulders against the chilly night air. It's almost enough to make Ibuki laugh.  
  
Almost, but not enough.  
  
They should talk about it, Ibuki thinks, but he's too embarrassed to say anything and Mamoru looks too tired. Yet here he is, dragging himself out of Ibuki's tiny bed despite clearly being exhausted, so he must want to talk, but here they are at an uncomfortable impasse as Mamoru opens his mouth five different times to say something before wincing and staring down at the cars below.   
  
The silence is worse than the meaningless words Ibuki is struggling to articulate.   
  
"That... that was okay, right?"  
  
Mamoru closes his eyes and lifts his chin to the sky. Smiles. "It was good, I thought."  
  
Heat rises in more than Ibuki's face. How Mamoru can embarrass him this many times in one night without trying is astonishing. "Not that; this. _Us_."  
  
He's sure Mamoru understands what he means, that it wasn't the act itself he had reservations about - since Mamoru was clearly not an amateur, and Ibuki was, it was easier to let Mamoru lead and Ibuki to react, and this was fine - it was the thought that they  _had_ , them, professional acquaintances turned friends turned  _this_  that feels strange and wrong.   
  
The stolen cigarette in Mamoru's fingers smolders out as Mamoru crushes it into the metal balcony railing and sets it on the tiny table that holds one tiny plant. Then he steps closer. Their bodies touch; though not intimately, Ibuki feels his body tense in anticipation for something more. "That's normal, I think," he whispers as quietly as he can without the city noise drowning him out. "But it happened. We can't change that."

Ibuki swallows. There's no point in trying to back away; Mamoru's warmth is enticing, and they had far surpassed any level of discomfort brought on by awkward physical proximity. "It's not that I wish we hadn't, I... I..."

The entire experience had been one of dizzying euphoria; the sensation of being inside Mamoru, the sound of Mamoru's desperate, heavy breaths, the taste of Mamoru's sweat-slicked skin and hot mouth, Mamoru's nails digging into his hips and chest and shoulders and hands, the sight of him gazing down at Ibuki with such fondness and _trust,_ it was all as close to Paradise as Ibuki had thought he could get, and coming down from that high had been the greatest emotional shock of his life.

"I'm just…" He furrows his brow and looks Mamoru right in the eyes. "Why me?"

Mamoru's face tightens, and Ibuki wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been standing with faces inches apart. "What do you mean?" he asks in that same overly polite voice that tells Ibuki clearly _I know exactly what you mean and you'd better not say it._

"I mean," Ibuki says, ignoring the warning and maintaining eye contact, "that you are a charming and beautiful man-"

"That is true."

"-and there are a hundred people in this city that would fall to your feet for the opportunity to be with you, so why did you choose me?"

A muscle under Mamoru's eye twitches involuntarily as Mamoru's frown deepens. "Why did I _choose_ you?" His voice is, for the first time, strained. Ibuki resists the urge to shift away. "You're talking about yourself like I went to the mall and pulled you off a shelf like a pair of new shoes. I didn't _choose you_ , Ibuki. I felt something for you, and I acted on it." His voice softens. "I had hoped you felt the same."

There it is again, the familiar, unwelcome feeling of guilt eating away at Ibuki's heart, that same sensation that had been an ever-constant presence in his life for years, well before he had ever known Anjou Mamoru. He can't help but look away now. Does he feel the same about Mamoru? Is there something different in their relationship than Ibuki has with Miwa, or Kai? No, it's unfair to compare Mamoru to his childhood best friends. They have a bond through Vanguard, but little else. Is it different, with Mamoru? Vanguard is an integral part of their relationship, certainly, but there's something else, a tightness in his chest, his mouth going dry. Mamoru is someone he can sit with and talk to, about Vanguard, about those kids, about work, about the sins of his past, knowing that Mamoru will never judge him, but listen.

He'd spent enough time alone in his life that he never knew the same feelings other teenage boys go through. Having crushes, being in love - these were foreign concepts to isolated adult Ibuki, before he befriended Anjou Mamoru and found himself furiously researching _what are chest contractions, stomachaches, acid reflux, and shakiness symptomatic of_ only to discover he wasn't sick at all.

"I'm just... confused. I've never..." Ibuki sighs. He can't bring himself to look at Mamoru again. "I've never done that before."

"It never stops being confusing." Mamoru wraps his arms around Ibuki's shoulders, draping them both in his blanket. "It just gets easier to ignore after a while."

The night air is chilly and Mamoru is warm, so Ibuki presses himself closer.

"I just want you to stop feeling like you're not good enough," Mamoru goes on, and there's that twinge of guilt again. "You've always been bad about self-flagellation. You don't have to martyr yourself for whatever it is you believe in so strongly. Learn to live, and love, and find time for yourself."

Ibuki half-laughs into Mamoru's bare shoulder. He lets himself snake his arms around Mamoru's thin waist. "Rich, coming from the man who often only lets himself sleep for three hours in a week because he's too busy working."

Mamoru's laugh is far more genuine. "Ah... I guess you've got me there, huh?"

They stand on the balcony, arms wrapped around one another for several minutes before Mamoru presses his lips gently to Ibuki's and speaks again.

"It's cold out here. Let's go back to bed."

Ibuki makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and it's Mamoru's turn to sigh. "We don't have to do _that_ , I kind of just want to sleep."

This is fair, so Ibuki lets Mamoru take him by the hand and lead him back into the apartment.

"I wouldn't mind," Ibuki whispers as they climb into bed again, but Mamoru is asleep almost the second his head hits the pillow, and all Ibuki can do is smile as he touches a finger to Mamoru's beautiful, relaxed face. 


End file.
